Fathoming Love
by IceCamaro
Summary: Vegeta's entire life in my view.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball Z or any of the characters used in this story that belong to the creator Akira.

**Fathoming Love**

**Chapter 1**

**Dr. Tazial Camden**

I find it hard to write this, torn between ideas and all the thoughts that seem to cram themselves within my mind. Shall I begin as so many do? "It was a dark and stormy night"……… Or does that seem rather cliché? Or perhaps the events which I alone contain, would be best conveyed in a diary type theme, dates, times, names and specific settings all placed into the pages of this tale.

I must confess, I am not a writer. I stare at these dull white pages, seeing their flatness, the lack of any 3d image taunting me, mocking my attempts. Perhaps if I could talk into a recorder of some sort, hearing my own voice speak the words, all would come clear, the emotion and the events drawn out into the crude summary they must be confined to. But isn't that where all this started? A tale and a tape recorder?

Ah, but I see I get ahead of myself, tempted to simply throw the story into motion with no fact or information leading up to it. So allow me to introduce myself.

I am Dr. Tazial D. Camden, one time college psychology professor and present therapist. At the time of this story, I was still a young man, though even then I felt the approaching mortality. It seemed that old age had crept upon me and I stared death in its dull, nothingness face, seeing my own reflection staring back at me. Tiny gray hairs tasted my brown side burns and slightly above though I had several years to go before reaching the age of forty. But like I said, I was staring death in the face and more importantly, I didn't care.

I wish I could tell you that it was a happy tale that I could write within these pages. That in the end all was well, a fairytale finish with smiles and never ending love. The last sentence being "and they lived happily ever after." But unfortunately, a dull mood has risen within me and I simply glare at this flat surface, despising that I must clutch this pencil within my fingers and thrust my feelings and experience into it. If only we could attach a computer to our minds, extracting the memories instead of trying to jot them down into words. Or better yet, perhaps we should attach such a devise to our hearts, letting the reader feel what we felt, know our emotions and bear our pain upon their own shoulders.

But alas, have I not gotten away yet again? I hear myself sigh knowing it's time to continue, watching as the candle next to me sways impatiently.

I was a young man at the time, thirty six years old and heavy with guilt and abandonment. But I carried my secrets within me, concealing them from those I loved, those I cherished more than the secret itself. I concealed my self hatred and suicidal fascination from even my wife, who stood a desolate creature that occupied my house on the rare nights when I came home, the lifeless being that weighed the other side of my bed.

The creature that had suffered more than many others, much of which I myself had caused, too young and reckless to accept such a fact.

But then, is this story truly about me? I suppose that's for you to decide. But let me continue.

It was not a strange assignment, actually a rather mundane, ordinary one. I remember shrugging and staring through the fog of my own torment at my boss, seeing the sides of his mouth wrinkle with each word he voiced. He truly was a wretched man, standing perhaps five feet and three inches tall, complexion ruddy and creased. I watched the light glisten off his balding forehead, seeing how pathetically he'd tried to comb it over.

"………killed his wife………" he was saying, each sentence as useless to me as the next. All this would be in the instruction anyways. All I was to do was enter the room, speak with the poor soul, hear his life story and idea of what he'd done and either condemn him to the death sentence or plead for his life on the account of criminal insanity. My report alone could convince a jury of his innocence, his guilt or his insanity, which so many pleaded to escape the rash system.

I numbly stood, shaking the fat, sweaty palm of the agent and exiting the boring room, the yellow envelope pressed between my fingers. This would be an easy one. I was convinced as I read through the newspaper clippings, the headings, the reports, the witnesses. Insane? No. Evil. Evil as I was.

A certain headline caught my eye's attention, my thumb pulling it apart from the others as I walked down a flight of pale, yellow stairs.

"Bulma Briefs, President of Capsule Corporation slain by husband."

* * *

Written in Doctor Tazial's point of view and spoken by Vegeta, you will enter the world of his life, portrayed in the only way I could see fit; from the first steps, to the last. 

I've actually been writing this story for about three or four years. I'm currently on chapter 36 and it suddenly dawned on me that I'd never really posted much of it on this site. So I figure I'll just toss up a chapter a day and see how people gravitate to it. Reviews are always appreciated but just reading is a compliment as well.

This is Vegeta's life, by Camaro.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fathoming Love**

**Chapter 2 **

**The Asylum**

Most likely it was the name that caught my attention, the one used so often within the magazine articles and television shows I had seen. Bulma Briefs. I stared at the smiling picture of the deceased woman, thinking how absurd it was that this photo captured her in such a happy moment and yet she now lay nothing more than a rotting corpse within the ground. Nothing.

She was now a body, supported and remembered only by those whose lives she had touched and the one who had taken her own. Namely, her husband Valentino Briefs, who had confessed to the crime immediately, leaving there no reasons for further investigation. Though no murder weapon had been found, a hole through her heart had been accounted as the reason of death, and I found myself saying "duh" at the obvious.

I ran my hand through my hair, curious to see how long this would take, or more specifically, how long it would be until my soggy hands would clutch the familiar cold of a liquor glass. I longed for the uncomfortable bench beneath me and the smoke filled room that would embrace my broken soul at the local bar, knowing even then as I do now that I was quickly reaching the point of alcoholism. But then, I didn't care.

There wasn't much information to begin with, my mind slowly grasping the idea that that was the point of my interview. To understand the workings of this monster's mind. To learn his history and decide his fate. I truly hated my job at times, though consoled that out there truly existed souls more miserable then myself.

I drove in silence to the asylum, the leaves of the trees above casting their reflection over my dashboard, though I concentrated upon the road before me, hardly noticing the priceless beauty of autumn.

Was it three hours I had driven all those days to see him? Four? I laugh aloud now, remembering how frantic I had become to see my patient on those days, waking before the sun as my fascination bordered on obsession. And yet then, I simply drove, feeling the pain of loneliness creep upon me and my own mental guards breaking it down into the numbing feeling that captivated me on those days when I was forced to remember, forced to relive over and over and over and over.

Tears, pain, a choice.

But I pushed it down, letting the fog creep over my guilt as the rough bricks of the gigantic asylum came into view. Sad that time has even erased the name of that accursed structure, though I am partly relieved at my mind's decay. Though it seemed the perfect picture of a college university on the outside, (if one were to ignore the thick, electric fence with barbed wire running in three parallel lines across the top) the inside was a place that made the sane go mad.

White walls. I dream of those white walls even to this day, awakening to find myself trapped by those that surround me. I absolutely hate white walls. But I suppose my pet peeves are of no interest to you.

The floor was cracked concrete, smooth and slippery, it gave off the feeling of an unfinished surface, the white walls on either side seeming almost blinding compared to the rusty gray of the cement. My expensive heels cracked upon the rock hard tiles, the sound accompanied by only the strange, unsettling moans and groans of those gone mad, some wandering aimlessly passed me as I marched through their territory.

The hallways seemed to narrow as my heels clicked through them, my gaze landing on the directions and maps upon the walls and glancing again to the photos and statements given about the crime.

"Date of birth….. June 8, 1956-1998. Body found at top of Brooding Cliff at precisely 6:23 P.M, husband lying soaked in blood next to victim."

I saw many words stamped into the clipping. Horrified, disbelief, anguish. A glance below showed a blonde haired woman fallen to her knees, hands digging into her tightly pulled up hair, face twisted with unbelievable agony as she cried hysterically. Deep down I was appalled at the scene, disgusted at the desensitized being that could have so easily clicked a button upon his camera and made possibly thousands for such a lack of conscience. But I was mostly intrigued by the apparent pain, happy for this woman that she could so easily release what I, a man of stature and pride, bottled within myself, knowing all too well that it multiplied and magnified the self loathing.

"Justin! Justin!"

My blood went cold within my veins and my stomach seemed to drop to the floor at my feet. I even think my heart stopped for a second as I watched the character approach me, hand clutched to its chest as it dragged its head along the smooth wall, neck adjusted to a no doubt painful position.

'W-What did you say?" I heard my own shivering voice demand, echoing through the tight corridor as the creature neared me, feet slithering and limping across the ground.

The man's face was hideously scarred, a possible burn victim, drool and mucus dribbling from the crack of its deformed mouth.

"Custin! Custin!" It shrieked in a high pitched tone, confusion bombarding me.

"He said Custin." Explained a calm voice behind me and I found myself face to face with a middle aged woman, a kind smile planted upon her soft features.

"Its probably best that you don't ask him why." She said humorously. "He tends to get emotional when spoken to directly by anyone other than his doctor."

"You just let him wander the hallways like this?" I asked reproachfully, watching as her kind face fell slightly and her composure turned serious.

"Custin is harmless." She said politely, gently pushing my back to signal a walk in the right direction. "He hates to be touched and would rather peel his own skin off then to do it to some body else. Just steer clear of him and he'll be sure to do the same with you."

I only stared forward, my pulse still irregular at my misunderstanding. Justin. Justin.

"I assume you're here to inquire about Mr. Valentino?"

I had begun to take a liking to the small but straight forward woman, immediately complimenting internally on her intelligence and quick observations.

"Actually I'm here to interview him. I am Dr. Camden, psychologist." I shook her frail hand, though we continued to walk in the direction which I assumed lead to where they kept the more dangerous criminals. It seemed the white walls caved in upon me and I was tempted to ask where a glass of water might be found.

"He's a difficult one, that Mr. Valentino." She commented dryly, staring straight ahead as though our destination lay directly in front of her eyes.

"Oh?" I asked, cocking my head to the side and raising a suspicious eyebrow. I remember the heavy feeling of dread bubbling forth inside me, foreshadowing all that I would learn from this creature. Difficult. God, that word could have so many meanings and yet only those of extremely negative connotation made themselves known within my complex mind.

There was a time when the mere idea of a challenging patient would have excited me, my interest perking up until even keeping my composure would have been a problem. But alas, as you may have imagined, those days were long gone in my tired and aged mind, the situation looking bleaker by the minute.

"Difficult?" I asked, silently pleading with her to elaborate, to explain what such a word meant. She only shrugged, her thin, wrinkled finger brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, something that reminded me immediately of my wife Laura.

"Smart as any man I've ever known." She mumbled, her eyes never straying from their position as her heels clicked sharply upon the concrete flooring.

"Attractive to the extremities I never even thought existed."

I had to stifle a laugh at this announcement, my nose wrinkling slightly as air escaped through it. How very childish this was! But to this day, to this very day I can recall that dead serious look in her face as she'd turned to me. She didn't think it was funny. After looking at her, neither did I.

"Like I said," She continued, her eyes returning to their spot ahead. "He's freakishly handsome and apparently knows it. Difficult hardly seems to do the bastard justice."

She sternly turned right down a hallway, leaving me baffled at her strong words and scurrying to catch up. I had to dodge a medic and her patient as they meandered through the same corridor on a collision course with me. The patient never glanced at me, his eyes glazed with nearing death as he simply let his head dangle from his neck over the wheel chair.

I'm sorry. I had to pause for a moment. You see, though reading such words hardly seems as traumatic as living them was, it is 'difficult' you might say, to relay such information. Those moments, that misery, that torment within that desolated creature's eyes. It mirrored my own. He was but a shell of a man, a soulless beast being pushed down a hallway, the spark of life burnt out with time. And I promise you, there was no way this boy could have been even twenty years old.

Silently, I still wonder what it is that could have made a teen look that way. Appalled as I was, I wanted to know. I still do admittedly. We hate death and yet it fascinates us so much. We want details, we want elaboration, the blood, the guts, the revenge, the consequences. And even then I knew that this boy's story would never reach my ears. Or those of any one for that matter. He'd closed up eternally, his secrets, his journeys, his pain and his story gone just like the fire that had burned out within him.

Gone.

But it is too early for tears. Or perhaps too late.

One could play with the idea that the young man grew up, escaped the horrors of the asylum, tore away the insanity that inflicted his immature mind. Perhaps it is easier to pretend that he still lives, nurturing others, caring for a family, the model family, his years in the penitentiary nothing more than a bad dream.

Yes, lets simply leave it at that and turn away from the very real possibility that that child died within the year that I saw him.

Perhaps you wonder why I go on and on about this patient, this no one.

Does his name have anything to do with the plot? Will he play a vital role?

Rest from these questions my beloved reader. That boy had no name. None that I knew of anyways. But I shall tell you why seeing him meant something, why I bother wasting my time on this soon to be covered paper.

Because that boy was me. Or at least I mused such a horrible thing. He was who I would become, torn away from even my own consciousness by the pain of loss, the grief and the pounding guilt. Was that what I would eventually become?

I shivered as I shiver now at the thought. At the possibility. But the nameless doctor pressed on, I say nameless simply because I cannot remember at this time, leaving me to follow behind in her hurried tracks.

Oh yes. Now I remember. Margaret Maxin. That was her name.

She lead me into an office, requesting proof of identity, contracts, legal rights to an interrogation, papers and the like which I will not even bore you with. For it is not important. Let me skip ahead though I know how childish it is to do so. Perhaps a better author would have detailed and explained each event deeply, but again, I'm no writer.

It was not long before she had lead me once again to a thick concrete door, white, as seemed to be the color of choice, and a tiny, Plexiglas window to the right. Standing up straight, her thin fingers pressed in a code, jotted in much too quickly for even my eyes to catch. But it was of no concern as a loud twisting of metal was heard and the door opened by itself, introducing me to the world of which I would become part in the months to come.

The criminally insane ward.

I think even then the idea that they kept this suspect here, struck me as strange. Of what importance was I if the monster was already where they apparently imagined he belonged?

And so, with a heavy sigh and a straightening of my dress shirt, I once again found myself staring at the white lab coat of Dr. Maxin's back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fathoming Love**

**Chapter 3**

**Valentino Briefs**

I couldn't push down the dread that had at some point locked onto my insides. I felt cold, though I figure it probably had something to do with the dastardly temperature they chose to torment everyone with. The air vents at times even frosted over if you would believe such a thing.

But ah, who needs such details? Shall I dilly dally around or simply get to the point that I'm almost certain would interest you? Fine, then let me introduce you to Valentino Briefs.

The room, like all the others seemed blindingly white, the four walls clashing absolutely hideously with the dull gray of the tiled floor. I can still smell the paint, the wretched taste it even brought to my mouth.

But to this day his face still haunts me, impenetrable and indisputably handsome.

I noticed at first the tight black turtle neck that adorned his finely chiseled throat and shoulders, pulled over his muscular arms like a second skin. This one would be trouble, I told myself. For I had learned on the way, that this "difficult bastard" had refused to subject himself to the apron like clothing that was mandatory for the other patients to wear. True, the chilling temperature was a possible reason for this blatant disregard of the rules, but one look from this monster told me vanity alone could be the culprit.

I had to take a moment to even focus on his face, so indescribably attractive I find myself truly wishing that I had taken journalism in College. How many words in the dictionary are there? And how many of those would pale in comparison to all that he was?

Fear was automatically settled within my stomach, butterflies fluttering about crazily. There was just………… I really don't know how to describe it so you'll have to forgive me. But there was just SOMETHING wrong with him. Something unnatural you know? Something that just didn't compute, didn't work or ……………… well, I think you get the idea.

But damn it, to this day I can't place it. If I told you how many nights I've stayed awake just contemplating what it was that made him so astonishing, you'd be baffled. Perhaps it was the tone of his skin, so bronze it seemed his cheek bones glistened with gold fragments. Not glitter, mind you, for I imagine that had I even suggested such a thing, I would indeed not be alive to write these words.

No, it was an unnatural shimmer, just along the area above his cheek bones, or, I suppose you could say underneath his eyes. The flesh of his face was honestly strange. And I know when we hear strange we think automatically negative. But erase that stereotype from your mind precious. His skin was so smooth, so clear, I shake my head even now trying to grasp the words enough to describe it.

It was like shower tile. Smooth. Pure. So perfect it almost seemed as if he'd been air brushed, the bronze God in a movie, too beautiful for practicality. No human imperfections had touched him, no blood vessels or light scars from adolescence tainting his flawless features. And poreless. Entirely, completely, utterly poreless. Is that even possible? I suppose I shall never know. Pity really. He could have been a scientific wonder.

A freak. Freakishly handsome just as Margaret had said.

I was taken back by his eyes, catching my breath and my fingers placing sweaty marks on the paper they held.

They were violent, fierce, uncontrollable. There was anger within them, frustration, undeniable hatred and something more. Pain. A deep pain, unlike any other that even I had felt. Immediately I examined my theory of his being a monster, regretting such a shallow assumption. There was torment within this creature. A savage lifestyle, a suicidal desire, a murderous conscience. Maybe I'd been the only one to see it, the only one blessed with the experience and the pain myself to understand that hurt that bore into me.

His gaze felt almost heavy with grief, weighing even me down with its pressure and force. My God. So much pain. I remember sucking in air finally, realizing that I hadn't been breathing. This was dangerous. This was unchartered territory. And perhaps it was my reckless age, my suicidal lifestyle, or the sheer gnawing of curiosity that coached me forward, made me pull out the plastic chair and sit directly opposite of his glaring stare. Whatever it was, I found myself alone with this man that I was to know, to learn from, to understand.

And it was intimidating.

Like meeting your favorite rock star, I felt suddenly giddy or something. Excited at the prospect of getting to stare at this gorgeous face for hours on end and hear of the reasons his eyes haunted me so. It was like the journey of a lifetime and I was the one to embark upon it.

"Valentino Briefs." I said as casually as my fluttering voice would allow, the damn butterflies within me perfectly content to remain and a cold sweat breaking out on my brow.

His glare only deepened at the strained sound of my voice, putting me even further on edge. Oh there was anger, I'm not going to deny that. For Valentino had always displayed mass amounts of that anger since he'd been forced to reside in the asylum. Throwing food, spouting mind boggling obscenities and insults, a time or two even breaking things in his rage.

But in that anger there was more of an irritance or an annoyance.

"Valentino?" He spat reproachfully, his thick burgundy lips pulled back into a harsh scowl.

"What's your name Doctor?" He demanded, leaning in towards me though I leaned farther back at the gesture.

First rule. NEVER under any circumstances give a patient your full name. Such was dangerous, for with even that municipal amount of information, it put you and your loved ones at risk. While I admittedly thought nothing of my loved ones' welfare, the idea of being approached by this monster reminded me quickly of this rule.

"Doctor Tazial." I said sternly, giving my chin and extra inch into the air and trying my best at the intimidating teacher stare. Well my friends, apparently it didn't work.

"Tazial hm?" He smiled, leaning in towards me so that our faces were an uncomfortable distance apart, his hot, steamy breath making my eyes water as I pressed my back against the chair nervously.

"Well Doctor Camden, I guess I shouldn't expect you to know my name seens how you don't even know your own."

My blood ran a few degrees colder and I simply looked at him until my eyes could no longer hold their painful focus and I was forced to look away shamefully.

"H-….." I'm swallowed, unsure if I wanted this assignment suddenly. "How'd you know my name?"

A smirk formed on his lips, fitting his look so unbelievably well it was as if his wicked grin just molded to his cocky personality. Like that damn grin belonged there or something.

"And you wont know my name either Doctor." He continued, as if not hearing nor caring about my mundane question.

"That is, not until I get my own name tag."

Day 2.

The chilling cold air threatened to dissolve the thick fog that remained around my vision from the hangover. And I would guess as much that you would be doubting that any such results from a night of drinking would be pleasant. But alas, I welcomed it. It was calming, familiar, known and understood.

I could still feel the hardness of a stool beneath me, the harsh gaze of the bartender sweeping over me as the clock warned of closing time. God how I hated clocks in bars. As if to remind those wretched souls that inhabited the area of their meaningless, boring little lives that they simply drank away to forget. Reminding them that this blissful feeling could never last forever and reality was only a footstep out that wooden door in the corner.

And now reality was setting in much too quickly for me as the crisp, lemony scent of bleach and cleansers assaulted my sensitive nostrils and the white walls once again enclosed around me.

It was safe to say that yesterday's encounters had been an utter failure, the patient's ruthless stare making me feel naked even now. There honestly was something evil in that man. Something unnatural. Something out of this world. Only, I couldn't place it. If he'd told me he wasn't human, I wouldn't have even been surprised. Or so I had thought at the time.

And there, yet again he sat, as still as a statue upon the uncomfortable plastic chairs, adorned in a tight white t-shirt and black pants. For all the cave man vibes he set off, the man had impeccable style and fashion sense. The vanity, yet again.

"Mr. Briefs." I spoke sternly, trying my act of superiority over him once more, though just one glance from those hate filled eyes nearly made me fall to my knees. I was careful not to say his name, or I guess I should say the name he denied was his own. For it seemed to me at the time that perhaps that was what had set him off in the first place.

I scanned his information quickly, completely forgetting all that I had planned on saying on the drive up to the asylum. I found him interesting, I'm not going to deny you that. I've always tried to at least be honest with others, even if I'm not always with myself. And to tell you the truth, as much as I was beginning to hate this man, I also had this strange respect of him. Maybe it was his composure or that arrogance he seemed to coat himself with. Whatever the case, I both respected him and envied him.

"Shall we start from the beginning? How about your childhood?" I leaned closer to him, taking a seat in the chair opposite to his glaring form, steadying my hands as they folded over the cold countertop that separated us.

"My childhood?" He asked curiously, cocking his head to the side though it seemed as if there really was nothing misunderstood about the question.

"Yes." I said overanxiously, giddy at the idea that perhaps he would open up to me. "Can you tell me something about it? Anything that may or may not have to do with Mrs. Briefs' death?"

Ok, so I'll admit now that those questions were absolutely absurd. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that perhaps they were incredibly insensitive and insulting, especially to a man such as Vegeta (or so I later learned was his name) who tended to be easily offended. But I was a young fool doctor at that age, reckless and selfishly uncaring to others.

I've just read over everything I've written and now again have to apologize. I've skipped ahead, I've used pathetic detailing and seemed to have failed in expressing even the emotions that propel me to write this story at all. Again, bear with me, for like I've said, I'm no writer and many facts and ordeals that happened within this tale are nothing more than vague memories to an aging old man. Can you truly expect me to remember everything so clearly?

And so he simply glared at me, crossing his arms and leaning back angrily into his chair, the fluorescent lights adding only more shadows to his piercing eyes and unnaturally smooth skin.

"Let me guess," He said savagely, the words spat between his teeth as his temper began to rage within him. "You want me to tell you some horror story, some vile tale of my wretched upbringing that will sedate your hunger for knowledge. Am I right? The gorier, the sicker, more perverted the better?"

I don't even think I answered him before he went on.

"You want me to tell you these things so you can go home, write your stupid report for the pathetic human justice system, mark me as a psycho due to childhood cruelties and sleep well at night. So you can be some sort of fucking hero who cracked the case am I right? Am I getting closer?"

I was so shocked by his intelligence, by just the way he spoke that I remained speechless. But not only that. Not only that at all. For a beautiful voice and a wide vocabulary had never wooed me into silence as much as the plain and simple truth that he had formed into words. Whether I had even known it previously, everything he said was true.

"Well spare me." He growled, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, only mere inches from my face. "I'm not your fucking puppet."

"Mr. Briefs…….. " I protested angrily, watching as he simply stared at me. "I think you forget who you are dealing with here."

Now I suppose there is something you should know about me before I continue, though I suppose a true author wouldn't have failed to inculcate this earlier. I pride myself on being slow to anger and calm but if provoked, I will NOT hesitate to defend myself, and when doing so………. Well, I tend to take on that sophisticated air that tends to anger people all the more so.

"I think it has apparently slipped your mind that it is I who virtually decides your fate. If I choose to say that you're a complete nut case, then THAT is what you are. If you work with me and behave your tempestuous little self, than perhaps I would be more eager to defend your case in court."

One of those long, uncomfortable silences passed between us, both just sizing the other up and silently waging our own war. Slowly he stood, the sheer size of him absolutely putting me on the edge of my seat, both mentally and physically.

While he only stood a possible 6 feet tall, 5'11 according to his papers and information, his massive muscle structure was enough to intimidate even the most obsessive body builders. Now don't get me wrong, he wasn't the bulgy type, with huge veins and that almost fat looking physique. No, he remained very compact and thin, the swell of his breast pushing against the tight cotton of his shirt and his tan skin clashing with the bright white walls.

It was the first time that I'd seen all of him, the sharp hair and exquisite face. He was the type of person you saw on the front of a magazine and thought to yourself, "do people that beautiful truly exist?" And I would have believed that perhaps he'd even undergone plastic surgery, as was the fashion of many humans as of late. His lips held that pouty, adorable shape that sent many prepubescent girls into near hysterics, and quickened even the older woman's heart.

But for all his beauty and unnatural appeal, it was not long before I saw the scars that dissolved every fabrication of his vanity that I had built within myself. Pretty boys didn't have that many scars. His knuckles were borderline deformed, the top of his skin thick and calloused, even the bones beneath mutated into a strange shape. Long scars and unhealed tears marked his exposed collarbone and I was morbidly curious about the rest of him.

He was a fighter this one, I decided though I could scarcely convince myself to believe it. The idea that another man's fist had at one time raised itself against that pretty flesh of his face almost seemed appalling to me, though at this point, my frustration had reached new levels and I could hardly steady my own hand upon the countertop.

A flash came out of nowhere over the counter top and looking down I noticed the top of my tan folder was laying open, several papers fluttering as if a slight wind had teased the air.

"Lets see, Valentino Briefs….." Came his voice casually and looking up in amazement, I saw that within his grasp lay his personal information papers.

"Ten year husband of Capsule Corp President Bulma D. Briefs. Father to Trunks Briefs. No other family ties….……. Son-in-law to ……….. Yada yada yada…."

He trailed off as if none of this meant anything, a careless, insensitive attitude making itself apparent in his tone. I was breathless, hardly able to control my amazement at the sheer speed it must have taken to obtain those papers from the envelope. I hadn't even seen it! It was remarkable! He apparently thought nothing of it, continuing to sort through the mindless information that the reports had scrapped up about him.

"Italian male, standing 5'11, 200 pounds... Unemployed….."

He looked at me humorously, laughing scornfully, a sound I soon began to detest.

"My, they just have it all don't they? I suppose there would be no reason for you to ask me questions about my life, I'm sure if you sort through this crap long enough you'll find it."

I stood up quickly, nearly knocking the flimsy chair to the floor in my haste and snatching away the crinkled papers.

"So tell me Doctor Camden." He continued much to my dismay as I attempted to shove the papers back into their confinement. "What about YOUR childhood?"

I growled deep in my throat. It was a common trick among patients. For all their attention seeking ways, they simply adored trying to pull information out of the doctor. I don't know why really. Perhaps it is a way to direct blame and focus away from them for a moment, to forget about the consequences and the reality of what they had done. Whatever the case, I knew better than to reveal anything about myself.

"That's not why I'm here Mr. Briefs." I said indignantly, sitting down once more and treating him the same way I would treat a child.

"We're here to talk about your wife's death."

He turned his back to me, the same way he would do for months to come when I was to receive no more information from him. It was the coldest shoulder I'd ever been given and I learned to respect it as much as I loathed it.

"Mr. Briefs, please sit down." I nearly commanded, watching as his strong back and shoulders tensed in anger at the tone.

"Mr. Briefs, I hate this situation even more than you do, I assure it. So why don't you just make it easier for both of us, tell me some bullshit story about your innocents and we'll work from there."

See, I told you I was reckless and insensitive.

"I have nothing to say Doctor." His voice came calmly. "You know neither my name nor my heritage. You know less about me than I know of you. Why should I tell you anything?"

I was about to protest once again, when he rudely cut me off, turning sharply and staring at me through enraged eyes.

"Why don't YOU put your childhood out on a platter? Why don't YOU tell me your life story, why you do the things you do? THEN and ONLY THEN will I talk. Not before."

And with that, he closed up to me, unresponsive and silent for many many days to come.

'Damn these chairs.' I remembered thinking as I leaned back into the uncomfortable and deformed plastic. I swear, they couldn't have possibly found anything more painful to sit in for hours on end. And that's what it became too. Sitting, in silence, for hours. Nothing. Not a word from him. He wouldn't even answer my questions, as rude as I found it to be.

I would threaten, reason and at some weaker, lesser points of the day I would beg pathetically. "Just give me something!" I just wanted a purpose, a reason to drive those three hours in the morning to the asylum, only to sit in this freezing cold room and ask questions, each stupider than the last, for hours on end with no reply. I just needed something to keep me going. It was only a few months until the trial and yet I had nothing. Nada. Zippo.

And it was driving me mad. Now at the time I may have been a fool doctor like I said, rash and naïve. But I knew what I was doing. I truly did. And Valentino was not the first patient to give me the cold shoulder, though he'd by far lasted longer than any of the others in his cruel ignoring of me.

And so I guess at some point I must have simply given up trying to goad information out of him. He was as stubborn as he was intelligent and had obviously no problem with simply glaring at me and rolling his eyes for those long periods we spent in that dreary, freezing cold room.

I tapped my fingers irritatingly along the countertop, my bottom lip curled over my top as I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes. It was as frustrating as it was hard to do what I did next. But all the same, I knew what it would take and I did, what I still think was the right thing. I did what I had to do.

"My name is Tazial Camden. I was born in February of 1966 to Claude and Nadia Camden. I lived in Arlington, Washington for several years before my family was transferred to Hartford, Connecticut."

"What did your father do?"

I was startled by his raspy voice, fully prepared to ramble on and on with these needless facts whether or not he responded at all.

"He………. He was in the military." I said politely, watching as he blinked thoughtfully for a moment before gesturing for me to continue.

"Anyways, we lived there for a few years before moving once again to Ontario, Texas where we resided for awhile before moving once more to Madison, Wisconsin."

He looked at me strangely, his head absentmindedly cocking to the side slightly.

"Did this bother you? All the changes?"

I remember once more commenting privately on how intelligent this man was. He seemed to perceive things much quicker and different than others did and he was a natural observer. You know the type I'm sure. Not really one to be the center of attention by choice, but the more standoffish type, simply watching and studying what they see around them. He was very smart to say the least.

"Well," I began, looking up and thinking to myself. It was a difficult question to answer, as many questions are. For there was a time in my life when I simply despised my father and then there are times even now that I thank him privately, knowing that I'm lucky to have seen so much of this world and what life has to offer me.

"I suppose it was hard. Some moves harder than others. And making friends? Well…. ." I chuckled, closing my eyes. "Well I guess making them took time that I didn't have. And keeping them was near impossible. But," I sighed, glancing up at him as my pointer finger drew circles on the smooth table. "I should be thankful to have met so many different kinds of people I suppose. I've learned to adapt and understand things that maybe others couldn't. I guess………… well either way there is nothing I can do now to change it."

He stared at me calmly for a minute before straightening up in his chair and observing me coolly.

"Yes, but it made you strong did it not?"

I don't really know what I responded or even if I responded at all to that question. But it was true and stands true up until this very day. Strength isn't obtained by an easy ride. Strength is given through work and the bullshit that life throws at you. But again, I've gotten away from the story.

"Strength and hardship is something I can understand." He said calmly and a small spark of hope awoke within my defeated soul. But I knew this wouldn't be so easy and sacrifice would, in the end, be my only key to opening up the mysteries that had made this creature what he was. And so I continued.

"My mother did small jobs here and there, never really keeping one for long as you might have imagined. I think……….." I smiled, deep in thought. "I think it was harder for her than she let on but all the same, she was a good mother and a kind wife to my father."

"What about your father?" he asked almost impatiently, leaning over the countertop towards me in an almost accusing manner.

"What do you mean? What about him?" I asked, unsure exactly why the topic of my father seemed to interest him so.

"What was your father like?"

The small, fraction of a smile had left my face entirely and I was finding myself frantically trying to grasp for an ending to this topic. For it wasn't one that I had ever wanted to discuss, not as a child, not then, not now.

"My father was………" Now like I said, I try to be honest and wasn't about to make my life look like an ice cream sundae complete with a cherry on top. Because it wasn't. No one's life is. Think about this…………. Who in this world is completely happy? …. Hm?... Have you met ANYONE in your ENTIRE life that is completely at peace with their physical features, their childhood, their life course and the people that surround them? No. And mine was no exception, though I down played the horror that had been my life at some points when I told him of it.

"My father was a ruthless man. He………… Well, you've seen the military type. He was an absolute perfectionist, expecting the most out of himself and expecting nothing less from his family." I laughed despite the morbid memories I was suffering. "I think he treated some of his troops with more kindness than he did me and my sister Tara. But we learned to accept it I suppose, making sure the house was tidy and that we were seen rather than being heard."

I can only imagine what he must have been thinking at that point. Weakling. Sissy. Brat. For as I later learned, such a lifestyle as I was complaining about was nothing more than a walk in the park for him. But that is for later.

"Tell me about now." He commanded none-too-gently and I felt the slight indignation rise within me at the tone, though I ignored it surprisingly enough and continued.

"I have a wife named Laura, I've been working as a psychologist for 4 years, before that I was a college professor. And……. I guess that's about it."

"What about children?" he asked. My blood slowed in my veins, feeling thick and cold under my skin. I know that my breathing had to have stopped and with the wretched quiet of the room, the thundering of my heart must have sounded like the furious beat of a bass drum.

I faltered, trying to stick to my morals as far as honesty and yet feeling my very stomach sink at the idea that I would have to reveal part of my self hatred, my denial, my guilt and my suicidal wishes that, had I been a stronger man, would have already projected themselves into action.

"I did." I said calmly, wondering why it had been so easy for me to say it. It must have been my heart, rotting like old cabbage within my ribcage. It must have finally decayed enough to stop working altogether, now nothing more than a stinking, festering piece of meat inside me.

"Did?" he asked, watching me carefully with his accusing eyes. I suddenly felt claustrophobic, like he was all around me with those piercing eyes, like the walls were caving in over me and when I died, the medics would find me and discover that wretched, unliving heart that had still beat when I breathed.

"Yes. He………….." He just looked at me and I couldn't do it. I froze. "He's gone to live with his mother now. My first wife. She lives in Seattle."

He leaned back in his chair, those horrible, horrible eyes sliding over my nervous face, seeing the wet print of my fingers on the top of the table surface.

"So he's died hasn't he?" he more stated then asked. I realized than that nothing I could do or say would remain unnoticed and unobserved by his eyes. He knew. And somewhere, somehow, he must have known about that wicked monster that beat wretchedly within my chest. He knew.

I think I must have nodded and was completely startled when I found him standing, gazing down at me with only the slightest bits of pity in those merciless eyes. It wasn't that he was feeling sorry for me, as I despised so much at the time. It was so much more than blind pity and remorse. It was understanding that I saw in his gaze.

Slowly, he pulled open the yellow enveloped that I had been trapped at one point underneath my elbows. Still staring at me seriously, he gently placed a piece of newspaper before me. It really was no different from the rest, facts and vague information placed into typed words on the gritty, gray surface.

But as I looked at the top, I saw the oh-so-familiar word "obituary" written in bold print. I felt a lump form in my throat as I continued searching and I imagine it would have been quite some time before I would have found it, had it not been for the smooth, glossy surface of Valentino's fingernail guiding me to the name that churned my stomach acids.

"Trunks Brief"

I gasped at the name, my fingertips quickly fleeing to my lips as I gazed at it, trying so hard to understand what it meant and yet knowing all the same.

"Come back tomorrow." He whispered, beautiful face drawn with the look of age and eyes weary. His voice was tight and he turned his back to me, perhaps, though I guess I shall never know, hiding away the emotions that had unwillingly betrayed his face.

"Bring a tape recorder."

* * *

Thank you guys for the reviews. I really appreciate the support and wow, it's awesome to know that this is well received here.

Love Camaro


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